These Four Walls
by sulli-ssi
Summary: "But right now? The one thing wrong with her – the ability to feel something not with her skin or her other senses, but with her very soul? She doesn't know if it's supposed to be bad. How the mighty have fallen, indeed." / AU, Ichiruki (as always)


**These Four Walls**

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Rukia Kuchiki – professional mercenary.

This is all she thinks about from the moment she gets out of bed and checks her email for any jobs. Her 'company' is a covert organisation that has trained her how to kill and how _not_ to feel anything ever since she learnt how to walk.

She's part of this program – Project 13 or whatever – to breed super-assassins for hire, experiments conducted on them from time to time.

She didn't feel anything when she was told this information, and she doesn't feel anything now.

Thing is, there's something _wrong_ with her.

She can't ever let them know, of course. They'd just send the other twelve kids after her and they won't even bat an eyelash, even if they've been together since they were found on the streets as no-name babies. She guesses it's this sense of deeply ingrained gratitude. Without the Project running at the time, they wouldn't even be alive. She wonders if it's just ironic how their lives are spared just so others can die, and she wonders if she should feel anything about that.

But liking something – anything – is considered taboo.

Maybe the drugs they've been injecting inside her are being rejected by her system, but she's been told countless times that out of all twelve kids, she's the perfect one.

She begs to differ.

She has this place, this abandoned building. It's _her_ place, even though she's been taught that nothing she has is entirely hers. This small space with four peeling walls and sealed windows and an abandoned underground bunker – it's _hers_. Even the couch that looks like it's been scratched at and chewed on by a rabid dog, that smells like alcohol and years of dust.

On one of her jobs, she had been forced to take refuge in that building just outside of town. It's owned by no one and doesn't seem to be up for demolition, so she had guessed it would be safe. The guy who screwed up on the job – a rookie guy who knew jack-shit and was part of the New Generation program where they were trained as _teenagers_ – died as soon as they got back (the New Gen program got scrapped immediately; good riddance).

Now, two years later, she still goes to that place whenever she can.

Besides, she's got all the freedom in the world when she's not on a job, or being strapped to a metal table with her pain receptors being rendered permanently numb, or being told to kill any other renegade New Gen kids who escaped the program's termination.

All in all, a normal life – which means that, ultimately, something is definitely wrong in her system. She's not allowed to _feel anything_. Not safe, not relieved after surviving another day on the job – not _anything_.

But today – oh, today, it gets so much better (or worse, if you ask Rukia).

Today, upon opening the creaky metal door, she finds something that wasn't there before.

Someone wrote on her wall.

Right there, to the corner of the wall in front of her, something is scrawled, the black ink still a little fresh. Someone invaded her space –

Her body responds immediately. Her heart calms and her breathing slows and her mind immediately assesses the situation, _rationalises_ it so that she won't tear everything apart.

This space isn't hers. _This was bound to happen_, she thinks as she walks in for a closer look.

_Who are you?_

The question makes Rukia blink. She expected some kind of ominous message, maybe someone who bears a grudge against her – but the latter is impossible. She's practically _no one_.

She glares at the writing, contemplates the question.

This scrawl is obviously male, but that's about all she can gather from it. This _male_, who unknowingly ruined the peace she found in this slowly-decaying structure…

Another uneventful day passes before she finds herself strangely bothered by it.

Is this what happens when she _owns_ something – to have it owned by someone else, too? Is this what it feels like to…to…_feel something_ so strongly for an object?

It's evil, she concludes as she hesitantly writes back for this mystery person, leaving her message on the space under his.

Feeling something isn't all that it's cracked up to be. She's seen people laugh and cry and beg and put their blind faith on something or someone. It looks like being _alive_, but she reminds herself that she really isn't; that this life is borrowed and she will put it to good use by being grateful.

_You can call me Snow White. Who are _you_?_

Two weeks, three days and four hours later, she comes back to half of her previously-peeling wall written on. By now it doesn't bother her.

She sits down for a bit on a beaten-up couch, looks at the messages she's been exchanging with this mystery person, black marker in hand.

_-I'm Strawberry. You're in my space._

_-No, you're in mine. I advise that you get out. You are ruining_ my _space._

_-No way. I've been coming here since I was nine._

_-Look, kid, stay out of my way._

_-I'm not a kid! I'm 27, and I have a job. I'm a doctor. So who are you, really?_

_-I already told you. And I'm not someone you should know._

_-And why's that?_

_-I do the opposite of what you do._

She remembers waiting for days for his reply. She remembers the dull thudding in her heart – one that her body can't seem to control – in anticipation, and in _fear_ (fear! Who would have known!) that the only person who she's ever had a semi-decent conversation with would leave her, too.

And then, after another one of her jobs, she found:

_-I don't really care. I'm just curious – why would you come here?_

_-Why would _you_?_

_-That's not fair; I asked you first!_

_-…I find peace._

_-Dust and mould and peeling paint aren't exactly peaceful…_

_-There's something about those things, though. You know they'll be there long after you and I will be gone. Things will continue to decay. There's a natural cycle to it, but this place seems to go against the laws of time. I find it very fascinating._

_-You have a very odd sense of 'fascinating'._

_-You haven't answered my question._

_-…I've been coming here since I first started college. The stress was getting to me, and I guess I just found this place secluded enough. You know the old bunker? There's a compartment there that leads to a bigger room. I gave the place a little TLC, and it's become my hideout since then._

She checked it out, of course, and he was right. There was a little compartment just behind the shelf of canned goods and bottled water – little enough to miss but big enough for a grown man to crawl through. It was certainly too big for her; the only flaw she found with herself was, of course, her height. But once she got over that, she also had to get over the small room that looked strangely…_homey_.

There was a decent mattress on the floor and some posters stuck to the padded walls. There's even some lanterns and food beside the makeshift bed that didn't look like it belonged in the prehistoric eras. Hell, there's even a _cooler_. She wonders if this had been a panic room of some sort back when it was built, but right now, it just looks like a normal 'hangout'.

_-…Why are you telling a stranger all of this?_

_-To be honest? I'd rather talk to someone who may or may not exist, than tell that person to go away. I'm tired of doing that, and I guess not really knowing you makes it easier to _not_ push you away. Snow White…I find myself trusting you. Is that weird?_

And now, she's gotten herself into this situation.

She ignores the protestations of her mind, her very instincts telling her not to write what she really wants to write on the wall.

She does it anyway – her first rebellion.

_-You're not the only one feeling like that._

How long has it been? Months, maybe; she's lost track of time. Jobs are coming in faster than she's used to. There are talks of her being dissected or being made the top dog. The former sends dribbles of fear running down from her heart and making her stomach drop. She wouldn't have been bothered a few months ago, but…

It's odd.

That's all she can say to describe it.

Her breathing quickens and her heart starts fluttering in her chest whenever she thinks about this guy, _Strawberry_. It's an even weirder name to use, she supposes, but the reaction her body has towards the mere idea of him sends her into a panic.

She figures that this is what emotions are.

More than once, she's debated as to whether she should tell the higher-ups this fact – that she's gained something called _emotions_ that she never had before. Sure, she still feels absolutely _nothing_ when she puts a bullet through a spluttering, begging man's head, or when she lies and cheats her way out of most everything during her free time. That's her idea of _fun_, seeing a man's brains splattered out on walls or taking every gambling person's money for what little they're worth.

But no, they'd probably keep her in, figure out what's wrong with her, and cut it out.

If her _heart_ is the thing that's wrong, then that means they'll kill her, right?

What else can possibly be wrong? It's not her brain; she practically hears her own voice screaming at her whenever she goes to that place. It's not her body; she trains thirty hours a week and takes her medication, as she's been doing for the past 27 years.

But, seeing one and a half walls scribbled on with messages from her to him, she can't help but _smile_.

It's odd. Definitely the oddest thing she's ever done, and that's saying something.

She'd rather scowl or glare or – usually – keep her face blank. She's never smiled so much – she's never smiled _ever_.

-_Why can't you ever get out of that rut, Snow? Hey, I left you a tub of ice cream in the cooler for you. I got you your favourite._

"What are you doing?" she asks, and thinks about whether she's asking herself or Mr. Strawberry.

Anyway, she's enjoying the taste of the ice cream that he left. She wonders – if he can take the news of her killing people and doing it just because it's what makes her Rukia, what else can he accept about her?

_-Thanks for the ice cream, Strawberry. I left you your favourite, too._

She spends her birthday in that space, eating ice cream cake (he's learnt that her other, not-so-secret desire is for all the ice cream in the world) on the couch, looking at the wall with a smile on her face and a poorly-wrapped present in her hand that concealed a really cute stuffed bunny.

-_Happy 28__th__, Snow. Hey, it's so weird that it's snowing on your birthday. You freak._

She resists the urge to giggle.

Rukia Kuchiki is just new to emotions, but she definitely knows she won't ever giggle.

At the end of her mini-celebration, she finally allows a small chuckle. Just a little one; it won't hurt anybody, right?

Besides…he's the only one outside of the company to ever know her real birthday. And…it's strangely nice to have someone who doesn't think her birthday as the reason why so many people are dead. Is this how it feels like to…celebrate something? To receive something for simply existing?

_-Right back at cha. I didn't think you'd remember. … Thank you._

"Do you need to be somewhere, Kuchiki?" her boss asks none-too-kindly. She fights off the urge to flip him off; she's been getting that feeling lately. She knows she can probably kill everybody in this building without even trying. It's been getting harder to stop herself from doing that.

"No, sir," she replies in her usual monotone voice, and doesn't say anything else. If she does, they'll find out that she's trying to gain approval – proof of her emotions. The Project 13 kids don't do that.

Her boss hums, obviously not trained to detect the slightest throbbing of the nerve on her neck that she cannot control. "Good to know. Report back tomorrow for your annual testing – we need to keep up your skin's resilience, and give you new medication to improve your system."

Now, this wouldn't have bothered her before. But with Strawberry giving her emotions in the form of words, it sends a chill down her spine.

She's been feeling so many things lately.

She tells him this later and, as per usual, he replies the next day – the only difference is that she sees it after her testing, when every part of her body is screaming for mercy:

_-You can always run away with me._

Something stirs inside her and she doesn't know why.

She waits weeks and weeks for his birthday to come. She's been anticipating it, even though she doesn't know why.

She just has this incredible need to see him; she's never needed anything before, and she hates and…and…is grateful for him at the same time, allowing her to feel things.

It's like she's been missing out on so much – missing out on the one thing she thought she could live without.

So she waits in the shadows, perfectly still and breathing slowly like she's been taught.

For a while she thinks that he's not coming, and that it's a total waste of time. She's been waiting for hours. Her muscles feel like jelly, and that's quite a strain; she's been standing against the wall beside the door ever since noon.

She looks at her watch – 1 AM – when the door finally creaks open.

She flattens herself against the wall and stops breathing when he shuts it behind him.

He doesn't notice her because the moonlight is the only thing he goes by, and he doesn't even open the flashlight he has in his hands; only walks towards the couch and sits tiredly on it, looking fatigued and lethargic.

He has orange hair and warm brown eyes and nice tanned skin – he's so normal it _hurts_ (and she doesn't know why there are suddenly a million blades driving into her heart and her throat). He's even wearing his work clothes, all pressed shirt and black slacks and polished shoes, together with the suitcase. '_Dr. Ichigo Kurosaki_', it says in front. Aha – Ichigo. 'Strawberry'. She grins; how cute.

When he notices the present she left on the couch, she hears him chuckle – low and throaty and absolutely perfect.

"Damn," she hears him breathe out as he opens it slowly and carefully, so unlike how she opened his present for her. "Didn't think she'd remember."

She raises an eyebrow at this but doesn't say a word. She didn't know he can also tell a person's qualities by their handwriting. Not only that; she didn't expect him to look so completely blown away by the strawberry plushie she got him yesterday.

It's such a simple thing, and it probably doesn't hold as much significance to him as much as his present did to her, but he looks like he's been given the most beautiful thing in such an ugly world. It confuses her so much that her eyebrows furrow and her mouth turns downward in her annoyance at being in a state of utter cluelessness.

His eyes light up and his smile brightens the dark room.

She wonders when he'll finally see her.

He doesn't, though, not on his own accord. He finally opens the flashlight and swings it towards the wall away from the two of them; she's standing beside him, for Christ's sake.

She almost laughs at how clueless he is, too. _Almost_; she's not quite there yet.

And then, she hears him sigh. "I want to run away with you…" He ruffles his hair and groans. "I must be going crazy, imagining something like this."

He stays for a few more minutes, and she does, too, watching him as he scrawls something on the wall in his usual manner. When he finally gets up, present and other belongings in hand, she moves from her spot, shifts just slightly, and heaves a great, heavy groan as he finally closes the door behind him.

But she doesn't fall yet.

Not until she reads what he wrote:

_-This is perfect. Thank you. I'm sorry if I freaked you out last time. I'm probably going to freak you out now, too, but…I'm falling for you. It's okay if you don't feel the same._

She falls – hard.

That's what people call it, she remembers belatedly. This…falling in love thing…

She used to think that it's just a bunch of hormones and bodily responses going haywire, but that can't possibly be it. She knows, now – she can't look at anyone or anything and feel something in return for them. It's all him.

Rukia Kuchiki – professional, previously-unfeeling mercenary.

She's still the best in the business. She still feels nothing when she kills or does something 'bad'. She still obeys the company like she's their personal bitch, and she still cannot feel physical pain.

But right now? The one thing wrong with her – the ability to _feel_ something not with her skin or her other senses, but with her very _soul_?

She doesn't know if it's supposed to be bad. She doesn't know why it has to feel so good, and hurt so much at the same time. She doesn't know why she smiles when she needs someone so badly even though they're not really there; she doesn't know why it doesn't feel strange anymore to smile and shed tears at the same time, like she's doing now.

How the mighty have fallen, indeed.

Shaking, she writes:

-_I feel like I'm falling, too._

_And…Ichigo? You're not imagining anything._

_You could've looked beside you tonight and proved that, you know._

_You really are an idiot sometimes._

_._

_._

_**A/N:**_ Aaaand that's it. I don't know why I wrote this; I was in the process of my editing/re-writing TLC and trying to come up with a new chapter for ABWMIM, but this came up and I just can't help but write it because it sounded so good in my head, and I can't let an idea go to waste. Also, I'm practicing writing something in a killer's perspective. I'm trying to write a novel from the bad guy's perspective; like a legit, someone-you'd-hate-but-love bad guy who is actually the protagonist. Like, the antagonist of the story is the protagonist, and the protagonists are the antagonists. It's just an idea, but…

Anyway, review and comment or whatever; do what you want.


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